


Magic Fingers

by pinlilli



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chinese Translation Available, Fluff, Hairdresser!Steve, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Steve Rogers, Panic Attacks, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Shy Bucky Barnes, Steve is beefy but not captain america, Touch-Starved, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinlilli/pseuds/pinlilli
Summary: “Kinda hard to wash your hair if you don’t take your hat off,” Steve says, amused.Hesitantly, Bucky reaches up to pull his cap off, revealing a matted mess of hair. Steve lets out a barely audible, “Oh.”Somehow, Bucky managed to catch his quiet exclamation and his shoulders round up protectively. “Sorry.” Bucky’s voice is tight with shame. Steve feels like a complete unprofessional and a grade A asshole.Steve is just a simple hairdresser.





	Magic Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> [Chinese translation here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16404962)

There’s a man that stops by the hair salon where Steve works a few times a week, though he never comes in. He just stands there, looking inside with his hands jammed into his pockets and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. 

The first time Steve noticed him, he was in the middle of snipping Phyllis’s hair. The man cut a dark and imposing figure, broad and packed tight with muscle. He looked like the kind of guy that could snap someone in half over his knee. And he was just so _still_ , like some sort of sentinel, and especially so against the backdrop of Red Hook’s early morning rush. Steve ignored the uneasy feeling in his gut, going back to his conversation with Phyllis. He didn’t do anything when the brunet showed up again two days later, and then the week after that, and the week following that. He couldn’t bring himself to, not when he noticed the man fiddling with the ends of his hair, hesitating in front of the door, only to walk away with his shoulders hunched.

Maybe he should have been wary the way his customers were. Maybe he should have stepped outside to have a word with the man. But the guy never gave anyone trouble, hurrying away with his chin ducked whenever Steve tried to make eye contact. It should have been suspicious, but for some odd reason, it wasn’t, and Steve had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. 

* * *

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to make an appointment. We don’t do walk-ins,” Sharon says.

Steve glances at the front desk. To his surprise, he finds baseball cap guy there with his fists clenched and shoulders held all the way up to his ears. His entire body radiates tension, but instead of looking threatening, he looks more like a scared puppy.

Steve wipes his hands on his khakis as he approaches them. “I can take him, Sharon. I just finished up.”

“You sure about that, Steve? You haven’t taken your break yet,” Sharon says.

“It’s fine.” He’ll be able to stuff a protein bar in his mouth at some point. The guy probably isn’t going to stick around for long anyway. He already looks ready to run, anxious and skittish, fingers playing with the frayed hem of his hoodie. 

He smiles invitingly at the man, though he doesn’t get a smile back. “Hey, I’m Steve.”

“Bucky.”

“What are you looking to get done today?”

“Just a hair wash.”

Steve directs Bucky to a wash unit and gestures for him to sit down. He drapes a small towel over Bucky’s shoulders and secures it at the front.

“Kinda hard to wash your hair if you don’t take your hat off,” Steve says, amused.

Hesitantly, Bucky reaches up to pull his cap off, revealing a matted mess of hair. Steve lets out a barely audible, “Oh.”

Somehow, Bucky managed to catch his quiet exclamation and his shoulders round up protectively. “Sorry,” Bucky’s voice is tight with shame. Steve feels like a complete unprofessional and a grade A asshole.

“I’ve seen worse,” Steve says. Bucky snorts disbelievingly and he insists, “Seriously. I’ve spent hours detangling hair before. It happens more often than you think. Yours isn’t even that bad.” 

Steve tips the chair back. Bucky’s hands fly to the arm supports, gripping them with such force that the plastic creaks in protest. His eyes are wide and terrified. Like he was being lowered into some torture device, when really, he was about to receive the best scalp massage of his life.

Steve guides the chair upright again. “Bucky, is everything alright?” It’s a stupid question. Bucky obviously isn’t, breath picking up in his chest. He kneels in front of Bucky, reaching out to grasp the man’s hands before thinking better of it. Keeping his voice low but firm, he says, “Bucky, look at me. I need you to breathe with me, okay?” He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. “In and out… That’s it.”

Bucky’s eyes find his and he takes an inhale in time with Steve. His death grip on the chair eases, broken pieces of plastic raining onto the tile. To Steve’s shock, the metal beneath the plastic has been deformed. He doesn’t mention it, just talks softly to Bucky and tries to keep him shielded from the view of other patrons.

“Hi,” Steve says with a smile once he thinks Bucky has calmed down. “You with me again?”

Bucky takes one look at him and bolts. He knocks Steve over in the process. Steve falls back on his ass, huffing out a little ‘ow’, more from surprise than pain. Bucky bursts outside, nearly taking the door off with his exit.

Sharon is suddenly at his side, helping him to his feet and brushing down his jeans with a hand. “You okay there?” she asks, helping him up to his feet. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, dazed. “Just startled, that’s all.”

* * *

He doesn’t expect to see Bucky again, but he’s proven wrong when the man walks into the salon two days later. He gives Steve a little wave when they make eye contact and walks over after exchanging a few words with Sharon.

“Sorry about last time,” Bucky says. He keeps his eyes trained on his sneakers as he speaks. “It’s just—I’ve just.” His face twists up as he struggles for words. Finally, he says, “It’s been hard. Adjusting.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

“Here.” Bucky hands Steve a towel. “I took this with me when I...” He mimes a running-away movement with his index and middle finger and offers a sheepish smile. It’s the smallest quirk of the lips that Steve can’t help but find endearing. 

“Thank you, Bucky.” He had already written that towel off. It’s not like it made a huge difference, but it’s thoughtful of Bucky to return it anyway. 

“I’d like to get my hair washed today,” Bucky says. “I even made an appointment this time.”

Steve laughs, gesturing with his arm for Bucky to sit down. While Bucky still looks uncomfortable, he doesn’t seem like he’s about to shake out of his skin this time. Steve waits until Bucky leans back on his own before wetting his hair.

“How’s the temperature?”

“Fine,” Bucky says tightly. He’s clutching his jeans, the denim bunching up in his fists.

“Remember to breathe, Bucky,” he says gently. 

Bucky huffs. “Feels kind of stupid having to be reminded to do that.”

“S’all right. We could all use a reminder once in awhile,” Steve says. “I was really skinny and sick growing up. I’m talking 5’4” and peaking at 100 pounds on a bulk. Anyway, I was sick all year round. Probably spent more time in a hospital than my own bedroom. I used to have asthma attacks all the time, too, triggered by a flight of stairs or just stepping outside on a spring day. It felt like my body was working against me. I couldn’t even do something like breathe properly, when everyone else could do it without thinking...”

Steve flushes a light pink. He doesn’t share details of his personal life often, instead preferring to keep the conversation centered around his client. But he wants Bucky to know that he’s not judging him, that he knows what it’s like to feel out of control. “Um, yeah. So that’s that,” he finishes lamely.

“And how about now?” Bucky asks, passing his eyes over Steve. 

Steve turns an even deeper shade of red. He has to remind himself that it doesn’t mean anything. Bucky isn’t checking him out. Everyone reacts the same way when he reveals he was a slip of a thing growing up. Trying to figure out how puberty and experimental drugs could have hit someone so hard. “Better,” he assures. “Asthma attacks are pretty rare. I probably get sick more than the average person, but it’s not so bad.” 

“That’s good. I’m glad,” Bucky says sincerely.

Steve beams. “Okay, so we’ll start with some conditioner. I’ll leave it in for about five minutes. Then we can rinse and start untangling some of the knots in your hair.”

He grabs a bottle of conditioner from the shelf and pops open the cap, pouring a generous amount into his palms. He massages the conditioner into Bucky’s hair, all the way from the roots to the tips. His fingers keep getting caught in snarls of hair, and he carefully pulls them apart. Once he has worked out the worst of the tangles, he passes a comb through Bucky’s hair, apologizing every time he has to yank a bit. Bucky frowns and his lap and grunts, “It’s okay.”

Bucky begins to loosen up once Steve starts shampooing. He presses the pads of his fingers into Bucky’s scalp, massaging firm but gentle. Bucky’s lips parts on a tiny, contented sigh, lashes fluttering shut. Steve tips his face up to the ceiling and grins like a fool, feeling like he has conquered a massive obstacle.

By the end of their appointment, Bucky’s hair is tangle-free and he can’t stop touching it. “This doesn’t even feel like my hair.”

“See, nothing a little conditioner can’t fix,” Steve says smugly. “Just wait until we’re done blow drying. It’ll feel even better. You have a lot of split ends, though. We’ll have to cut your—”

Bucky stiffens again, expression closing off. “No. Thanks, but no,” Bucky says, pulling his cap back on and drawing it low over his eyes. He stands up and makes his way to the counter to pay.

Steve trails behind helplessly. “Oh. Um. That’s fine,” he says. “I can just recommend a few products to you, then?”

But Bucky is already out the door, bells jingling behind him.

* * *

Three days later, on a Friday, Bucky shows up again and mumbles, “Sorry about last time.” He asks for a hair wash, and this time Steve doesn’t push for anything more.

Steve quickly finds out that Bucky loves having his hair brushed with a boar bristle brush. Within seconds, the tension melts away from Bucky’s shoulders. He sinks into the chair, practically pushing his head into Steve’s hand.

“S’nice,” Bucky slurs, voice molasses thick.

Steve has to bite down on his lip to muffle a chuckle when he catches sight of Bucky in the mirror. 

Bucky’s wearing an expression of absolute bliss. He’s checked out completely, eyes shut and jaw slack. Steve ducks his head, feeling strangely accomplished. He pulls the brush from scalp down to the tips in long and broad strokes. Considers making conversation, but Bucky looks like he’s floating, the stress easing from his body and the lines in his face.

At the end of their fifteen minute appointment block, Steve stops brushing and clears his throat. Bucky cracks an eye open, annoyed.

“S’over already?” he grumbles, reaching for his cap. 

Steve laughs. “Unfortunately.”

From then on, Bucky books a thirty minute appointment every Friday and Wednesday at nine in the morning. It takes less than ten minutes to wash and blow dry Bucky’s hair, so he spends the rest of the time brushing. Steve finds it kind of sweet, and a little sad, too. He guesses that Bucky doesn’t have anyone he can ask to brush his hair. It probably means he doesn’t have anyone he can be affectionate with, when he so clearly wants it.

* * *

Two weeks later, Bucky comes in asking for a shave. Steve hesitates for a moment. He’s not sure that’s a good idea, given Bucky’s reaction to a haircut less than a month ago. But he decides it’s none of his business what his customers want. With a smile, he agrees, “Sure, Bucky. Go on and take a seat.”

Steve smooths some shaving cream onto Bucky’s cheeks, trying to pay too much attention to the definition in his jaws and cheekbones. He wets the razor and slowly brings it to Bucky’s face. Even then, Bucky flinches when the blade touches his jaw, like it’s an unexpected thing. Steve backs away immediately.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters. “That surprised me.”

“Do you want to keep going?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says gruffly, tilting his chin up to give Steve unrestrained access.

“I’ll be quick. I won’t hurt you,” Steve promises. He presses the razor to Bucky’s skin and sweeps the blade in the direction of the grain using short and fast strokes.

He fits his thumb into the divot of Bucky’s chin, tugs the skin taut so he can get at the hairs in the shadow of Bucky’s jaw. Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows. Most people just stare at their reflection or at the ceiling while they’re shaved. But he can feel those grey eyes on him, tracking his movements, and hell if that doesn’t make a guy nervous.

When they’re done, Steve stands behind Bucky as the man admires himself in the mirror. Bucky strokes his jaw, turns this way and that. The lack of scruff makes his sunken cheeks more apparent, but he’s still handsome, and achingly so. His eyes find Steve’s in the reflection and he smiles, and Steve offers a wobbly smile back. 

* * *

“So Bucky is kind of cute,” Sharon comments offhandedly as they’re closing up for the night.

“No.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Sharon pouts.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s me. I hate fun.”

“He asks for you specifically, you know,” Sharon says. Steve knows this. He’s worked on Bucky every single time, but it still sends a warmth of shy pleasure through him to hear it from someone else. He might even be blushing a little. “I mean, he stutters saying your name half the time, but he manages.”

Oh, damn. That is really cute. There’s a chance that Steve might be in trouble.

Sharon grins. “I’m just saying. You might not be the only one with a crush.”

Steve tries to shrug her off. “Come on, Sharon. Just because he’s comfortable with me, doesn’t mean he like _-likes_ me.” Like- _likes_. Jesus, he feels like a preteen saying that. Bucky sure as hell makes him feel like one, young and clumsy, complete with butterflies rampaging in his stomach.

* * *

Steve probably thinks about it more often than he should. The kinds of haircuts that would suit Bucky. The one that would best highlight the sharpness of his cheekbones and the strength of his square jaw. He maybe loves how Bucky’s hair feels in between his fingers, and maybe some nights, he’s too excited to sleep because he knows that he’s going to be seeing Bucky in a few short hours.

He doesn’t know anything about Bucky other than what he sees for half an hour, twice a week. But he knows the man is quiet and gentle despite being military (Bucky has a prosthetic arm he’s self-conscious about and wears dog tags around his neck. Steve’s never been one for numbers, but he knows how to put two and two together). He knows Bucky is more comfortable around cars and motorcycles than people. And he knows he loves those small private smiles Bucky gives him, like they’re sharing a secret.

It probably shouldn’t be enough to like someone, but once Bucky brings him coffee and Steve is walking on clouds for the entire week.

* * *

“I’d like a haircut,” Bucky says. “And a shave, too, please.”

And Steve, dumbass that he is, just stares. Not comprehending, even though cutting hair is his job. 

After a few more seconds of Steve gaping, Bucky fiddles with the baseball cap in his hands and asks tentatively, “Is that okay?”

Steve shakes his head to snap out of it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course!” he says. “What did you have in mind?”

Bucky digs out a wad of paper from his pocket and unfolds it before handing it to Steve. It’s a print out of an old picture, probably one from the 30s or 40s, of a young man dressed in a sergeant's uniform. His hair is short, cut close at the sides and a bit longer up top, where it holds a few curls. As a history buff, Steve recognizes him immediately.

“A fan of James Barnes?” He squints at Bucky. “Now that I think about it, you even kinda look like him. Same nickname, too.” 

Bucky shrugs. “He’s an okay guy.”

Steve chuffs out a laugh. “That guy’s a war hero! I wanted to be him when I was younger. Dressed up as him for Halloween and had a Bucky Bear and everything.”

Bucky peers at him from beneath his lashes and smiles, a small and sweet thing. 

After washing Bucky’s hair, Steve directs him to a salon chair. Once Bucky settles in, Steve casts a silver cape over him and fastens the back. He ruffles Bucky’s hair dry, laughing silently at the disgruntled expression on the man’s face.

“So what’s the occasion?” Steve asks as he passes a fine-toothed comb through Bucky’s hair. His hair health has improved a lot since the first time he walked into the salon, now free of tangles. 

For a moment, Bucky doesn’t answer.

Steve combs back Bucky’s hair from his face and realises that beneath all the scruff, Bucky is actually blushing. His lips are tugged downwards and there’s a furrow to his brow, like he’s arguing internally with himself over whether or not he should tell Steve.

It’s quite possibly the cutest thing Steve has ever seen. Now he really wants to know, though he doesn’t push for an answer. He offers a way out in case Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it. “Not that you need a reason for a haircut.”

“Well,” Bucky starts, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “There’s someone I’m interested in. Like, romantically, maybe. And I was thinking… I’d like to ask ‘em out on a date.”

“Oh.” Steve blinks, he looks away from Bucky’s face and returns his attention to the other’s hair, like he should have been doing in the first place. Swallowing, he says, “That’s great, Bucky.”

“I wanted to get cleaned up first since I look like a mess most of the time.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” Steve says hotly. “You’re a really good-looking guy and anyone who says otherwise is an asshole not worth your time.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Thank you, Steve.”

“No problem.” Steve snips off inches of Bucky’s hair at a time until it’s at a length where he can begin cutting it into the style Bucky wants.

Steve’s proud of Bucky, he really is. He’s never asked, and Bucky’s never told him, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Bucky has had it rough. So to know that there’s someone out there that Bucky cares for and wants to pursue a relationship with, someone that hopefully cares for Bucky back… That’s good. Steve is a little sad and a little worried, but happy. It’s like watching your kid grow up and start dating in that inexperienced and shy way.

At least, that’s what he tells himself to justify the tight feeling in his throat.

“I haven’t done this dating thing in a long time,” Bucky tells him after a while. 

“That must be exciting,” Steve says, not particularly excited. In fact, it feels like there’s a rock in his stomach.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I was thinking I’d take ‘em out to dinner. Do you have any recommendations?”

“There’s a really good Vietnamese place along West 4th called An Nam. The portions are big and it’s not too expensive, and they don’t mind if you just sit and talk after.”

Bucky asks a lot of questions while Steve works. Things like: Would it be a big deal, if he had to just get up and leave in the middle of conversation, because he gets overwhelmed easily. Should he give flowers on the first date, or is that something that happens only in movies. If guys even like getting that sort of thing. Still reeling from the knowledge that Bucky likes _guys_ , Steve tells Bucky belatedly that he can’t speak for anyone else, but he’d be six kinds of flattered if someone bought him flowers. 

It’s kind of a relief when Steve has to blow dry. That way he won’t have to hear about how nervous Bucky is, how much he likes the guy.

He shields Bucky’s face with a piece of cardboard as he sprays some hairspray to hold the style. He makes a few last touches, fluffing up Bucky’s hair to give it that effortlessly tousled look. After shaving Bucky, Steve takes a step back and forgets how to breathe

He’s always known that Bucky was handsome. Like, _really_ handsome, even with his hair hanging over his face and the patchy scruff. But now he gets an unobstructed view of startling, gunmetal grey eyes that steadily meet his own gaze. Bucky looks young and fresh-faced, his lips plump and kissable; his smooth and defined jawline begging to be caressed. (And hell, does he bear a striking resemblance to James Barnes.)

Steve feels his cheeks growing hot, the colour creeping up to the tips of his ears. He knows how obvious the blush is on his pale skin, how it’s further exacerbated by the harsh fluorescent lighting of the salon. That makes him even more embarrassed and he gets even hotter, if that were possible. His ownself has it out for him.

“Um,” Steve says loudly—Jesus, he’s hopeless—turning away and busying himself with looking for a hand mirror. He finds one tucked between a tube of hair gel and a container for brushes.

He holds up the hand mirror behind Bucky so he can see the back. “So what do you think?”

Bucky reaches up to pat his hair curiously, turns his head side to side. Then he sits up taller in his seat and he grins, so wide and sunny that Steve can’t help the tiny and completely involuntary noise that escapes him. He hides it by clearing his throat.

“I love it, Steve,” Bucky says. “This is perfect. Thank you so much.” 

“No problem. I’m glad you like it.”

Bucky goes up to the counter to pay and Steve ends up walking him the two meters to the door.

“Good luck with that date. I’m rooting for you.” Like a huge loser, he gives Bucky the double thumbs-up.

“Thanks.” Bucky pushes the door open. Just before he steps through, he takes a deep breath and turns around. Offering Steve a crooked grin, he says, “You should let me take you out for dinner so I can thank you properly.” His voice is all false bravado, and it’s the curling and uncurling of his fingers that gives away his nerves.

Shocked and delighted, Steve manages, “Oh, Bucky…”

Bucky quickly adds, “It doesn’t have to be a date if you’re not interested in me. Or guys. Shit, I don’t think I’ve asked you if you were into guys. And I know that even if you liked guys, you might not like _me_ , because. I’m kinda messed up. Probably a lot messed up. But—” Bucky takes yet another deep breath and meets his gaze. “—I like you. You’ve helped me out a lot and I’d still like to take you out for dinner. Even if you’re not interested in me like that. To thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” 

It’s the most he’s ever heard Bucky say at once, and by the time Bucky is finished with his word vomiting, Steve is barely containing his laughter.

Bucky closes his eyes and groans softly in frustration. “I swear, I used to be a lot better at this.”

"You mean when you were a baby and didn't have to talk, just had to sit there and look cute?" Steve teases.

Bucky curls his shoulders in and looks at Steve meekly.

"I'm kidding, Buck. I'd love to go on a date with you." Steve steps forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Bucky's mouth. Lingering and slow to part, so that he feels Bucky’s lips curving up as he steps back. Behind him, Sharon gasps theatrically.

“Lucky me,” Bucky says. “Already got a kiss out of you.”

Steve laughs. “Keep it up. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

* * *

Steve comes in early next morning humming a jaunty and nameless tune. He flips the sign on the door to read ‘Open’.

“You seem happy today,” Sharon comments. She hands him a cup of coffee, which he takes with a, “Thank you, Sharon, you’re the best.”

“Yeah. I have a date with Bucky tonight.” The tips of his ears are pink, he can feel it.

His good mood lasts him throughout the day. He greets his clients too loudly and puts in a concentrated effort into their conversations. Even Henrietta, who is a huge gossip and often makes him feel uncomfortable with her comments, can’t faze him. Sharon keeps shooting him amused looks. Six pm can’t come any sooner.

At the end of the day, he waits impatiently for Sharon to close up so they can ride the train back to their apartment together. She gives him all sorts of unsolicited advice on their commute home. As much as he loves Sharon, he can’t help but be relieved when they arrive at her door. She turns around, the corners of her lips pulling up into a smirk. “Let me know how the date goes. Though I guess I’ll find out tonight when I hear you moaning Bucky’s name through the walls.”

“Sharon!” Steve sputters, turning a bright red all the way up to his hairline. “We’re not—! I’m not—A good date doesn’t have to end in sex!”

The sound of Sharon cackling follows him back to his own apartment. He hops into the shower, scrubbing thoroughly just in case things happen to turn a little hot and heavy tonight. He shaves away his five o'clock shadow and puts a bit of product in his hair. 

Three heavy knocks on his door interrupt his search for clothes. Cursing, he jams his legs into a pair of khakis.

“Coming!” He buttons up his shirt with nimble fingers as he makes his way over to the door. Bucky is an hour early and Steve glows at the thought that Bucky was too excited to see him to wait any longer.

Steve swings the door open. “Hey, Buck—” The greeting dies on his tongue and the grin slides off his face.

Instead of Bucky, standing there are three men. All are dressed in full kevlar, assault rifles on their back and handguns in their hip and thigh holsters. Their vests are unmarked, so they’re not police or FBI. Hesitantly, Steve asks, “Can I help you?”

The lead man speaks, “The name’s Brock. I’m with SHIELD. Are you Steve Rogers? Owner of Liberty Salon?”

“That’s me,” Steve says.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Brock says. 

“You don’t look like you’re here to ask questions,” Steve says mildly.

Brock ignores him. “There have been reports of an internationally known terrorist sighted at your salon. Caucasian, about 30 years of age, 6 feet, between 200 and 250 pounds. Brown hair. His most recognizable feature is his metal arm.” He pulls a photo out of his front pocket and hands it to Steve.

The photo is grainy and the colours are dull, but even when obscured by a baseball cap, Steve would recognize that profile anywhere. Hoping that the recognition doesn’t show on his face, Steve hums for a moment before saying decisively, “Nope. Never seen a guy like that around. Sorry.”

Brock smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You sure about that?”

“Positive,” Steve nods. “I think I’d know if I saw a guy with a metal arm. If that’s all, sir, I’m sort of busy at the moment.” He inches the door closed, and that when he spots Bucky sauntering down the hallway. Bucky’s dressed in dark jeans and a soft grey henley. He looks amazing, and he’s the last person Steve wants to see right now.

“Everything alright here, Steve?” Bucky asks, eyebrows raised in question. He doesn’t even blink at the sight of the armed men.

“Just the man we were looking for.” Brock raises his rifle, the other men following suit. One guy is talking rapidly into his comm.

“Whoa! Hey!” Steve holds out his hands. “Put that thing down. You’re not shooting anyone in here.” 

“On your knees. Ankles crossed. Hands up,” Brock orders. 

Bucky hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering to Steve, and Steve can’t even think beyond the cotton of his brain. Bucky can’t be a terrorist. What kind of terrorist makes weekly appointments to get their hair brushed and pouts at the end of every session? It doesn’t make sense, and yet Bucky isn’t defending himself.

“Do it, or I shoot your boyfriend,” Brock says.

“I said, no shooting anyone!” Steve yells.

Bucky obliges, dropping down one knee at a time, raising his hands slowly above his head. Brock follows the movement with his gun. Once Bucky has settled, Brock inclines his head at him and says, “Cuff him.”

Steve’s not sure if he suddenly turned into a fly on the wall, but he’s getting tired of the way Brock is ignoring him. He’s never been one to pick his battles, throwing himself headfirst into every single fight he thinks is worth fighting. But this isn’t some back alley brawl with someone who is as much an amateur as he is. This is him standing against three guys as big as himself, each of them with assault rifles at their front and guns at their waist. His mother must be rolling in her grave.

When one of the men rushes forward to cuff Bucky, Steve immediately steps in to block his path. “Okay, first of all, you can’t just walk in here with guns and threaten to shoot people for no reason. Secondly, I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“Step out of the way, Rogers,” Brock says.

“Look, I’m pretty sure you have the wrong guy here. Bucky isn’t a terrorist,” Steve says. “I’ve been working with him for months now and he’s never once—”

“I’m not going to ask you again. Get out of the way.”

“I can’t do that,” Steve says.

Brock sighs loudly. Then he raises his rifle and points it at Steve’s head. He has barely focussed on the gun on Steve’s forehead for more than a second when Bucky lunges, whip fast. Bucky rips the gun from Brock’s hands, snapping it clean in half like a twig. And then everything happens all at once.

The hallway explodes into chaos, walls torn apart by bullets, startled shouts erupting from neighbouring apartments. Bucky pushes Steve behind him, shielding him from the gunfire. Bullets glance off Bucky’s metal arm.

“Stay close to me,” Bucky grunts. “I won’t let you get hurt.”

In any other situation, Steve would turn red, fan his flaming cheeks with floppy hands, because _wow_ —what a thing to say. Except right now, it’s raining bullets and his ears are ringing and he’s scared for himself and everyone else here. All he can do is press himself against Bucky’s back, trying to make himself as small a target as possible, which is not very small at all.

Bucky closes the distance between him and a SHIELD agent, grabbing him around the neck and crushing it in one hand.

“Oh my god,” Steve breathes when the man hits the ground, scrabbling at his throat, eyes bulging. Bucky doesn’t break rhythm. He closes the distance between him and Brock with one step, twisting the pistol from the man’s hand. He spins it in his palm and smashes the stock into Brock’s temple. Brock crumples to the ground.

The other SHIELD agent goes down, kneecaps shot out. Steve follows the source of bullets to Sharon, who’s holding a handgun steady between both hands. Already more men are rushing in to fill the positions of those fallen.

“Get Steve out of here,” Bucky tells her.

“On it,” Sharon says. She runs over and grabs Steve by the arm, trying to pull him away from Bucky. “Let’s go, Steve.”

Steve shoots Bucky a panicked look, refusing to budge until Bucky nods and says, “Go with her.”

Before Steve can protest, Sharon is tugging him along frantically. “I swear to god, Steve, if we get shot because of you, I’ll shoot you myself.” With another hard yank, Sharon pulls him into her apartment. She throws open the sliding door to her balcony and shoves him out onto the fire escape. 

Steve stumbles down the rickety metal stairs, constantly looking over his shoulder. His heart jackrabbits in his chest. He can barely hear the sound of gunfire over the blood roaring in his head.

“Just _go_ , Rogers!” Sharon barks, right at his heels.

As soon as their feet hit the pavement, a van pulls up beside them, the door sliding open. Sharon shoves Steve in, scrambling after him. They haven’t even fully closed the door when the van is speeding away, tires squealing over asphalt.

The first thing out of Steve’s mouth is, “Are you secretly an Avenger?” 

Sharon laughs. “No, just a SHIELD agent.” Before Steve can say anything, she says, “A actual one though, unlike Rumlow.”

“Wow,” Steve exhales. “You could probably beat me in a fight.”

“Probably.”

Steve takes a moment to process that before saying, “I have to go back. Bucky’s still in there.” He demands, “Stop the car. I need to get out.” The driver doesn’t stop though, and Steve fumbles for the door handle. He’ll jump out if he has to.

Sharon grabs him by the arm, sharp fingernails digging into his biceps. “Steve, you go in there, you’re just going to get in his way. You playing baby koala isn’t going to help anyone. Bucky can take care of himself.”

Steve shakes his head. Bucky used to be unable to wash his own hair. That’s why it was matted up so badly. Bucky doesn’t know the difference between hair clay and hair gel, and he gets nervous making appointments over the phone. Bucky needs him!

Sharon jerks him away from the door. “Steve, you need to trust that Bucky knows what he’s doing, okay? He’s damn good at his job. The best in his field.”

“But he’s a mechanic,” Steve says miserably. “What does it matter if he’s the best in the world at fixing cars?”

Sharon gives him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me right now? Did you or did you not see him snap a gun in half with his bare hands? Steve, he could take on five, ten, fifteen armed guys and probably win. He’s a supersoldier. And he’s not alone. I called backup.”

Steve shakes his head, unconvinced. “They’ll kill him.”

“They won’t,” Sharon says confidently. “They have orders to bring him in alive.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. He’s valuable. SHIELD has been trying to recruit him for months now. Whatever organization Brock was working for, they’re probably trying to do the same.”

Steve screws up his face. Turning away from Sharon, he presses his forehead against the window and makes himself small. He can’t reconcile the image of the Bucky who crushed a man’s neck in his hand with the Bucky he knows, the one who melted under his touch and bumbled through a confession.

Sharon drops him off at a nearby motel and assigns someone to keep an eye on him (“I know you, Rogers. You’re gonna sneak out the moment I leave.”). Steve glues himself to the news, but doesn’t learn anything beyond, GUNMEN OPENED FIRE IN RED HOOK APARTMENT. Without his phone, he resorts to hassling his babysitter to check online for the latest updates. The incident is strangely hushed.

Ten hours later, the phone in his room rings. Steve jolts awake from a half-sleep and scrabbles for it. He curses when it slips through his clumsy, shaking fingers. 

“Bucky’s safe,” Sharon tells him. “We got him.”

Steve goes weak with relief, sagging boneless against the pillows.

Bucky’s safe, he repeats to himself.

Bucky’s safe, so why does he disappear for the next three months?

* * *

Steve is going insane. He nearly told a girl to shut up when she started bawling because he cut off two inches instead of the one inch she requested. Taking two inches off hair that’s over two feet long isn’t even noticeable, but she sobbed hysterically into her mother’s arms anyways. Sharon dragged him away and dumped him outside. Ordered him to just breathe for a while. 

It’s all because Bucky has dropped off the face of Earth. Sharon can’t tell him anything because it’s either classified or she genuinely doesn’t know. Way above her clearance level, she told him. Steve isn’t enough of an ass to pull the ‘If you were my friend, you’d tell me what you _do_ know’ card. He tries to convince himself all that matters is that Bucky is alive.

Steve is gathering hair into a dustpan, sighing forlornly, when Sharon glides behind him and leans in to whisper in his ear, “Better put a smile on your face, Steve. Your favourite customer just walked in.”

He whips around to find Bucky standing there with his hands tucked into his pockets. His hair has grown out, long enough to flop over his forehead in a tumble of curls. He looks like he’s lost some weight, skin drawn tighter over his cheekbones, dark bags beneath his eyes. Three months should have been enough to get over a crush, but when Bucky flashes him a lopsided grin, Jesus—Steve is still feeling it. The butterflies come rushing back. His knees wobble and he braces himself against the broom.

“Favourite customer, huh?” Bucky repeats.

Steve bites down on his lip to contain his smile. “You tip well and you don’t move around too much, so…” he says.

Bucky laughs.

“What can I do for you today?” Steve asks.

“Just a hair wash.”

Steve directs him to take a seat. Bucky moans as soon as Steve’s fingers slide through his hair. “God, I missed this,” he sighs, melting into the seat. “I swear, you have magic fingers.”

Steve chuckles. He doesn’t want to disturb Bucky when he looks like he’s floating, but he needs to know what the hell happened in the past three months. “Have you been okay, Bucky?” he asks quietly.

Bucky opens his eyes a sliver. “I’ve been alright,” he answers. “Been busy tying up some loose ends.”

“You’ve been gone for so long. I didn’t know if you were coming back,” Steve hedges.

Bucky hesitates for a moment before saying, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You owe me a date,” Steve says.

Bucky stares at him in disbelief for a moment. Then a smile begins to stretch across his face, slow and stunning. Steve can feel himself grinning back.

* * *

The next night, Bucky shows up at the doorstep of his new apartment with a bouquet of sunflowers. 

“Hi,” Bucky says shyly, peering overtop the flowers, eyes crinkled. “I bought you flowers.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was unbeta'd, so feel free point out any typos/mistakes I've made. Feedback is greatly appreciated!
> 
> Wanna be fandom friends or writing buddies? Here's [my tumblr!](http://lillupon.tumblr.com/)


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